I guess that's what it's called when you wake up early, lead a group of friends up a mountain with the promise of warm coffee at the top, and then your screaming hot water splinters a cold French press.

I had the greatest turnout of Saturday hikers to date this past weekend: 14 if you count the babies. There were even 3 Norwegians who confirmed it was indeed chilly for an Arizona morning. And as I sat there admiring the rootbeer glow of the rising sun with the gentle rumble of the JetBoil like a tender drumroll, all was well in the world. At least until scalding brown silt ran down my hands and the rocks below. The press had bit the dust.

Thankfully someone had a couple of butterfly bandages and everyone in tow had plenty of patience. Thankfully most people don't crack in dicey conditions and warm drinks were finally served (with a tinge of latex).